


Sex and Violence

by RedTeamShark



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Consensual, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M, Object Insertion, RACK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 22:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11656152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: The only rule was that rules were made to be broken.--Locington gunplay/gunfucking. Consensual, heck ye.





	Sex and Violence

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://hippocratessocrates.tumblr.com/post/116323938541/rolls-over-locus-fucking-wash-with-a-loaded-pistol)

_Click._

Loaded gun to his head. Naked, tied, helpless. The hand that strokes his skin firm, guiding his reactions.

“I’m going to fuck you with my gun.”

He nods as much as the collar will allow, wordlessly consents to the statement. The time for words, for discussing this suicidally dangerous idea is long passed. He knows what he’s getting into.

“Get it wet.”

The pistol against his lips and he parts them, exhales to keep himself steady as he tastes metal and gunpowder, smooth oil that keeps all the moving parts in order. He takes the gun into his mouth and sucks on it, runs his tongue over it slowly. Get it wet. Follow instructions.

Locus slaps his ass and he jumps, takes a bit more of the gun into his mouth. He knows the rules, knows what’s expected of him. He lets himself relax into the bindings, lets his legs fall open wider and his back arch lower. The hand on him is gentle again, not quite exploratory–Locus knows where he’s going.

“Washington…” That deep voice sighs out his name, the tone familiar. Apparently watching Wash suck off his gun is just as good as getting sucked off. “You ready?”

He nods again, withdraws his mouth and lets out a small, almost involuntary moan as fingers spread his entrance. Warm metal traces down his spine, running over the taut chain of the cuffs on his wrists. When the gun presses against his entrance he tenses on instinct, flinches back from the penetration. Locus is going to fuck him with a gun, a loaded gun.

And he wants it to be rough.

“Locus…” That breathless word is all he manages, all he needs. Locus presses the gun more firmly against him, insistent. Wash runs out of wiggle room after barely an inch.

“You’ll love it.” The voice above him says–command, not assurance. There’s no reason to assure him of something he already knows.

The gun enters him slowly, stretches him out like a cock or a dildo never has. Some of the edges are sharp and he forces every muscle to relax, to enjoy the mild pain of it. Tensing up won’t do him any favors anyways, Locus isn’t going to stop.

It’s perfect.

He feels Locus’ hand first, shivers involuntarily at the warmth of skin against him. The gun stops pressing inside, holds steady with the entire barrel in him. Locus’ other hand stops spreading him, rests on the dip of his back instead. A reminder, probably. A relaxer, definitely. “Yes?”

“Y… yes…” The word that leaves him is unsteady, hitching. Mild pain contorts his face as the gun moves, but he means it. Yes. He wants this.

The gun draws out of him and presses in again, starts a slow, steady rhythm. Soon his hips are rolling into it, trying to line up in that way that he likes, press as much of the penetration against his prostate as firmly as possible. The moans that pass his lips are low, breathless, and (he’s almost positive) the entire reason that Locus bears down on him, stills his hips and takes control of pace and position.

“Oh god–”

Locus laughs, actually _laughs_ with a loaded gun in his hand, the barrel fully holstered in Wash’s ass again. That laugh speaks volumes and Wash fights for the inch of wiggle room he’s been allowed, turns his head enough to catch his partner’s eye and pouts.

“Fuck me like you mean it.”

“Maybe I’ll just shoot you.”

The monotone delivery, like Locus is actually considering it, makes Wash’s eyes widen. He doesn’t need to look to know that Locus’ finger is on the trigger, that an errant twitch could end his life–and his cock jumps at the thought.

Wash licks his lips and turns back to face the bed. “Please.”

There’s no verbal response, not even a hum of assent. But the gun moves again, draws slowly out of him and pushes back in, every notch and rivet on the barrel stroking against Wash’s prostate. The hand on his back slides to his hip, then around, warm fingers wrapping around his cock. He doesn’t dare move without permission, even if all he wants to do is fuck forward into the warm tunnel of Locus’ hand and backward onto the delicious rawness of the gun. As long as he’s good the sensations will keep coming, he’ll keep feeling them and experiencing them and even if Locus doesn’t want him to, he’s going to cum.

His hips twitch, telltale, and the hand around him tightens, strokes faster. The gun moves just a bit quicker, just a bit riskier. The press against his prostate lengthens by immeasurably pleasurable seconds.

“Locus!” Wash nearly chokes on the name, gasping it out desperately, a plea for continuing, for more, for everything. His plea is answered, his world fading two dual points of focus–ass and cock, gun and hand. That’s all that matters and he’s going to get off on it, is getting off on it, Locus’ gun fucking him steadily and Locus’ hand stroking him firmly and it’s all more than he can take in.

The world stops being sensation just in time for him to feel the gun easing out of his ass, for him to feel the warm press of Locus’ lips on his skin. Running over his shoulders and the back of his neck, soothing away the tension that had built up there with his orgasm. The safety is back on the gun and it’s set aside, hands slowly undoing his bindings. Wash nearly collapses against Locus, breathing unevenly and looking up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Fuck.”

“Yes?” Locus asks, an actual question this time, hands smoothing over Wash’s sweaty skin and lips pressing to his forehead.

“Fuck. Yes.” Wash grins lazily, sated, and Locus smiles back.

Guns were definitely off his ‘no’ list.


End file.
